Murder on the Potomac

  Acclaim for Margaret Truman’s Capital Crimes mysteries

  Murder at the National Cathedral

  “A vigorous tale of twists and turns … An authentic thriller.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  Murder on Embassy Row

  “Juicy … Satisfying entertainment … There is a sweetly romantic love affair and a lot of inside information about the decor, food and party life in Washington.… [Truman] gets better each time out.”

  —People

  Murder in the Supreme Court

  “An adept murder mystery … about the murderous, evil ways of our nation’s leaders … Truman’s hints as to the real state of Washington are terrifying if true.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  Murder in Georgetown

  “The kind of murder mystery that will keep you hanging on until the final pages.”

  —United Press International

  A Fawcett Crest Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1994 by Margaret Truman

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  http://www.randomhouse.com

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-44746

  ISBN 0-449-21937-2

  eBook ISBN 978-0-8041-5281-5

  This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.

  First Ballantine Books Edition: April 1995

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Other Books by This Author

  1

  When Mackensie Smith closed his criminal-law practice to teach law at George Washington University, he vowed to find time to smell the proverbial roses. Which didn’t necessarily mean he planned to turn to gardening. In truth, he did not enjoy gardening, although his appreciation of a delicate scent, especially from Annabel’s throat or shoulders, was as strong as anyone’s.

  For Smith, indulging in quiet leisure time could mean many things, for he was a man of many interests. But two purely personal pursuits were most important to him: spending more time with Annabel, his wife, and enjoying reflective hours on or along the banks of the Potomac River, a Washington symbol as surely as most of the city’s monuments. Like most rivers, it was one of the principal reasons the city had sprung up there in the first place.

  Somehow, for Smith, the Potomac and Annabel were kindred spirits. Not in any strained philosophical or poetic sense; Smith was too much the pragmatist for that sort of thinking. Maybe it was that both woman and river provided him with the sort of peace he craved. Annabel was an oasis of calm, as was the river. Both moved smoothly and with a touch of the stately, but no pretenses of grandeur. And there certainly was a parallel beauty. Annabel Reed-Smith was the loveliest female creature on earth as far as Mac was concerned. That she’d chosen him as her life’s mate was a reality for which he thanked Someone on a fairly irregular basis.

  This day in late August, after having done so again, and taught a class and lunched with a friend from the State Department, he’d thought to stop by the river for an hour. Ordinarily, he would have found a secluded spot near the city and strolled the river’s bank, watching crews from the universities practice their smooth but arduous sport, appreciating lovers walking hand in hand or lounging on the grass, or just taken time to drink in the river’s tranquillity as it quietly slid past the city to empty into Chesapeake Bay. He occasionally fished the river for bass, smallmouth upstream, bigmouth down, usually in the company of a friend, Wendell Tierney, who fished to catch fish. Not Smith. Sure, it was fun hooking one on his barbless hooks, carefully guiding it to Tierney’s bass boat and gently releasing it to be caught another day. But catching fish wasn’t as important as being there. Yes, that was it. Just being there was worth it. Maybe that’s what rivers were for.

  But he decided to do something different this particular afternoon. He drove north on the Virginia side of the river until reaching Great Falls, whose foaming rage creates Washington’s most stunning act of nature. (Its tumultuous waters, Smith thought, were rivaled only by the turmoil of politics-as-usual downriver.) He walked to the edge of the Potomac River Gorge and looked out over this scenic, moving masterpiece. Far below, water that had poured over the falls swirled in fast-flowing circular patterns. Like all intense beauty, awe-inspiring, producing fear as well as admiration.

  The sunny warmth of the day had lured hundreds of tourists. Schoolchildren squealed with noisy delight as they romped through groves of oak and hickory trees. Photographers propped their cameras on tripods and waited for the perfect slant of sunlight. Bird-watchers trained binoculars on the sheer granite slopes that formed the gorge, fractured in many places after the molten lava of millions of years ago had cooled, the resulting fissures now filled with rich deposits of white quartz.

  Lovely, thought Smith. Like her.

  In time, with the visceral pleasure of warm sun on his face and the bracing clean air off the falls, he decided to head home. He might get dinner started. Or at least set up the ice in glasses. He turned and walked a few steps in the direction of his car, thinking that this might be one of life’s big moments, not big at all but a quiet time when you want nothing more than you have, and then the scream sliced the air like the fissures in the rocks. He turned and saw people running to the gorge’s edge. He quickly went to the rail and looked down. The small body below was caught in the swirling currents, tiny arms flapping in vain search of a grip. There was no sound, although the child must have been screaming; there was only the roar of a hundred thousand gallons of water a second cascading over the falls, majestic in its power, unforgiving in its violence.

  2

  Somewhere in Washington, D.C., on the Sunday following the tragedy at Great Falls, a funeral was conducted for the girl who’d drowned. The newspapers made even more of it than usual because the tragedy had happened where it did: another fatality claimed by the falls. Of all the parks across America managed by the National Park Service, Great Falls produced the highest number of victims—seven, eight, sometimes ten drownings a year. Few were the result of falls into the gorge. Most stemmed from reckless swimmers or boaters failing to respect the water’s power. In this case, the child, part of a class that had made a visit to Great Falls to celebrate the end of a hot summer-school session, had slipped away and had gone around the low railings that defined safety. What glorious freedom after two months in a sweltering classroom. You could almost think you
could spread your tiny wings and fly.

  The grieving family had already announced a lawsuit against the Park Service, as well as the administration of the school attended by the deceased girl.

  But aside from those people emotionally involved in the child’s death, for most D.C. residents nothing had changed. It was too pretty an afternoon to dwell upon unpleasant events. People were out on the streets. The heat of the summer, like the death of the child, would soon be another pale memory. Autumn beckoned, Washington’s finest, most palatable season.

  “ ’Morning, Sam,” a tall, slender young man with a neatly trimmed black mustache said to another young man he’d intercepted. He wore a soft tan leather vest over an American University T-shirt, tight jeans, and sneakers.

  As the two men exchanged banal words, a few men and women sauntered past them. Then a third young man approached wearing a SAVE THE EARTH T-shirt beneath an outlandishly oversized gray double-breasted suit jacket, a small revolver in his right hand. Sam backed away, although the weapon was pointed at the other fellow.

  “You bastard!” The newcomer’s voice matched the threat in his hand. And then the revolver’s report violated the scene’s tranquillity. Others who watched recoiled with horror, then braced like mannequins, mouths and eyes opened wide.

  The young man slowly backed away, hands raised as though shields against another bullet.

  “Don’t murder me,” he said. “Please don’t murder me.”

  Another shot, this time the weapon pointed at the victim’s groin. His expression was more bewilderment than pain. “I’m …” He gasped, wrapping his arms around a tree in an attempt to stay erect. But his thigh and groin melted into a wet red stain, and his body seemed to melt, too, into the ground.

  His attacker stood over him and now held the revolver inches from the man’s head and squeezed the trigger. A misfire, a dull, metallic thunk. The assailant recocked the weapon, pressed it to the chest, and fired again. The fallen man’s shirt became a crimson Rorschach. Again, the revolver was held to his head. Another misfire.

  He placed the weapon in his pocket, smiled at the stunned onlookers, and asked of no one in particular, “Is he dead yet? Is the bastard dead?”

  He walked off, slowly, casually; one expected to hear him begin whistling a happy Disney tune.

  Another dramatic scene in the larger production that is the nation’s capital.

  3

  The Next Night

  This was Annabel’s first meeting; she’d been elected to the board two weeks ago. She was introduced by the chairman as “Annabel Reed-Smith, wife of former criminal attorney and now distinguished George Washington University law professor Mackensie Smith—and herself a former attorney who gave up the law to become proud owner of a thriving Georgetown art gallery.” She took her seat at a large oak conference table on the second floor of the National Building Museum on F Street NW, between Fourth and Fifth, across from Judiciary Square and adjacent to Washington, D.C.’s “Chinatown,” such as it is.

  The chairman, Wendell Tierney, was in his customary position at the head of the table and called the meeting to order. Tierney hadn’t learned yet not to introduce women by giving the occupation of their husbands and their status as wives first. Before addressing the formalities, reading minutes from the previous meeting and other routine things done by boards of directors rather than giving direction, he had a few more words of welcome for Annabel. “Mrs. Smith’s distinguished career as an attorney, and more recently as a valued member of the arts community, is well known to all of us. Her husband’s fund-raising efforts on behalf of this institution are also well known—and sincerely appreciated.” He smiled. “We’re honored to have you join our board, Annabel. You will surely be of aid to us. I might also add that you provide a welcome and attractive visual aid.”

  Annabel politely thanked the chairman for his “kind words,” glancing at two other women in the room. Did they resent the sexism, too? And the implied insult? One, Pauline Juris, had been Tierney’s administrative aide and personal assistant for years. She was a tall, slender, pretty woman whose plainness of makeup and dress was by design, suitable, perhaps, to Tierney Development Corporation, Inc., the conservative company headed by her boss, but that did little for her. Annabel had observed that Pauline’s legs had a ballet dancer’s muscularity, like the pronounced calf muscles on some San Francisco women, developed from trudging up and down that city’s hills. The other observation made by Annabel upon first meeting Pauline—once at Annabel’s gallery, a few other times at the inevitable Washington fund-raisers—was that her lips were more fleshy than one would have assigned to her otherwise small facial features. Sexy lips, Annabel thought.

  Physicality aside, Annabel found Pauline Juris to be pleasant but businesslike. All business. She had little doubt Pauline kept Tierney’s ship running on an even keel.

  The other woman, Hazel Best-Mason, an accountant who specialized in nonprofit institutions, Annabel had seen a few times, too. Hazel was the museum’s controller. She was short and borderline chubby, a chocolate sundae away from spilling over the edge into outright obesity. Unlike Pauline, Hazel enjoyed makeup and was adroit in its use. Black hair flecked with gray was worn short and neatly styled. Her orange oval glasses made a fashion statement, as did her clothing—suits with vivid splashes of color provided by a blouse, sweater, or scarf. Nicely manicured hands were a fleshy display case for a multitude of rings; hand-hammered gold earrings dangled to her shoulders.

  Neither woman appeared to have been hurt by Tierney’s acknowledgment of Annabel’s indisputable raven-haired, creamy-complexioned beauty. Of course, they might have been but simply repressed it. Unstated truths. It would have been professionally indiscreet to show annoyance. Another unstated truth, Annabel knew, was that all things considered, Tierney would have preferred that her husband be seated in the chair she occupied. He’d asked Mac on several occasions to join the board but had been politely turned down. Annabel represented second choice.

  But so be it. She was pleased to have been invited to help guide the fortunes of the National Building Museum, whose mission it was to recognize and celebrate America’s historic achievements in building and to encourage excellence in the building arts. With her art gallery humming smoothly and demanding less of her time, she’d found freedom to pursue academic pursuits for purely personal enjoyment, and the architecture of Washington had become a favorite subject. She’d joined groups that studied and fostered public interest in the diverse, often startling, sometimes inspiring, occasionally distressing architecture of the nation’s capital. It all tended to heighten her interest in how things were built, old and new. Her seat on the Building Museum’s board was a natural extension of that interest.

  As the new kid on the block, Annabel contented herself with listening for two hours as Tierney ran through the agenda. She was impressed with the way he maintained control. No heavy-handedness. No surprise. Tierney Development had made him one of the richest men in Washington, and he conducted himself with the natural assuredness of a man secure in his success. Handsome, elegant, with patrician features, Tierney bore all the vestiges of someone who takes care of himself—and who takes himself seriously. A personal trainer came to his home gym early each morning to help his client stay fit. His tan bloomed perpetually, thanks to a tanning machine also located in his home. Grooming was impeccable—hands painstakingly manicured, a full head of gray hair bordering on white, always in place, even on windy days. A rich and successful CEO and chairman of the board from the files of Central Casting.

  Across the table from Annabel sat another man, not as rich as Wendell Tierney but not missing any meals, either: Samuel Tankloff, the New York investment banker who, ten years ago, aware that his primary source of business was Tierney Development, opened a Washington office, bought a second home in Virginia, and now found himself spending most of his time in D.C., leaving the running of the New York operation to trusted lieutenants. Tankloff lacked Tierney’s smo
oth demeanor or smooth features. He was short and squat; his nickname in school had been “Tank,” which fit his name as well as his build. He was, indeed, tanklike.

  Swarthy skin did not need artificial sun to give it a burnished sheen, nor was a trainer necessary to pump up his muscles. Frizzy tufts of black hair fought a losing battle to cover the broad expanse of his bald pate. His eyes were almost black, his ears large. Annabel had never seen so much hair sprouting from anyone’s ears before.

  Tankloff bought his suits from the same tailor as Tierney, and expensively, but they didn’t look as good on the shorter, stouter man. What file in Central Casting would Tankloff occupy? Annabel wondered. Mafioso underboss? Arab deal-maker? Turkish dictator?

  He was none of those things, of course. He was Sam Tankloff, investment banker and Wendell Tierney’s best friend. And likable, Annabel had decided. Behind his scowling, often menacing facade was a surprising warmth. Tankloff gave you the feeling that he was deeply interested in everything you thought and said; nothing else mattered while you expressed yourself. Mac and Annabel knew both Tankloff and Tierney socially. Although Annabel respected Tierney, she preferred Tankloff’s company, and that of his wife, Marie, a woman bemused at everything her husband did and said.

  As the meeting neared conclusion, the final business was a reassignment of committee memberships. Annabel had replaced a departed member of the board who’d served on the finance committee and its compensation subcommittee. She was assigned to both. Laughing, she said, “Me on the finance committee so soon? Wouldn’t happen that way in the Senate. Mac isn’t happy with the way I balance my own checkbook.”

  Hazel Best-Mason, finance-committee chair, offered pleasantly, “Balancing a personal checkbook is hard. Being on the finance committee is easy. Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks,” Annabel said. “But I’d still better brush up on what is an appalling lack of knowledge about money.”

  “And I can’t think of anyone better to teach you than Hazel,” Tierney said.